When the Stars Set Sail
by Quill Angel
Summary: John knew that meeting Sherlock was trouble. What he didn't know was that trouble meant that a kitchen boy was going to fall hopelessly in love with the prince. No, John was definitely not prepared for that. Middle Ages Teenlock AU. Sex, dragons, magic, danger, and a bit of star crossed romance.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't even know what this story is. It was supposed to be a one shot middle ages AU with some kinky sex and lots of sword puns. But now it's heading dangerously in the direction of A Proper Story, because apparently I have way too many ideas and I can't just be like 'okay, so they have great sex, bye bye". I don't know how long this will be, or when I will be updating, because I'm concentrating on Sonnet and Surprisingly Okay. **

**But I'm adopting a Let's See Where This Goes kind of attitude with this, because wth, I already have two WIPs, so yeah, what's one more? Right. So, I'd love to hear what you think because this is something very different I'm doing, and reviews are encouraged. This isn't being beta'd as of now, so I'm sorry for any typos.**

* * *

:1:

Sherlock looked dispassionately at the boy who was supposed to be duelling with him. He was taller than him, well muscled, in comparison to Sherlock's own slender frame. But he was built for strength, not speed. He was weak on the left side, the limp was delicate, but noticeable to Sherlock's eyes; there was a scar there that was hidden by his leggings, but it was there, alright. Sherlock weighed his chances. The boy went for the predictable shot, slicing at his legs; Sherlock jumped, and swished out of his way.

"You can't run from me forever, your majesty," he drawled, and the both of them circled each other until the boy brought down his sword on his shoulder but Sherlock avoided that too.

This was _tedious. _There were so many other things he could be doing. The poisonous _aremia nifellus _he had found was just blooming and if he went back now he could harvest the poison but no, his father had him _here _in this _ridiculous duel _, as if he needed something as stupid as a _sword _when he knew a dozen different spells that could cut this boy's head off. Or his nose. That would be funnier.

He almost didn't notice when he parried a thrust to his stomach but Sherlock knocked the sword out of his way. He looked around. No one was watching. There were far more interesting things he could indulge himself in. He _could _just stab him and put them both out of this misery, but where was the fun in that? So instead, he made an expression of alarm, pointing at something behind the boy and said, "Oh, look, a dragon!"

"_What_?" the boy exclaimed, and turned around. Sherlock took that as an opportunity and ran. The boy probably took a few seconds to realise that there _was _no dragon, in fact, and Sherlock almost pitied him. The guards would realise he was gone in four...three...two...

"_His majesty's gone!"_

"_There he is!"_

"_Your Grace!"_

His father's guards had been told to ensure that he didn't run away from his swordplay lessons, because he made a habit of it, and how could you ever become king if you didn't know how to hold your sword? But Sherlock knew that when he would become king, he wouldn't need swords, because he had _magic._

He heard shouts behind him, and Sherlock knew the guards had started running. Sherlock despaired of their stupidity. As if they were going to catch _him._

Dust went flying under his feet as he sprinted. The sword made it difficult, but he made it out. When he was out of the arena he turned left, and then ducked into the stables. _Yes. _They were hardly going to find him _here. _He sheathed his sword and kneeled behind a stack of hay. Then he giggled to himself. Moonstone looked at him curiously from her pen. Sherlock waved at her, and she snorted in reply. She didn't seem to be in the mood for trivialities. Sherlock respected that about her.

He exhaled loudly and stretched his legs out in front of him, taking off his chain mail and stuffing it under the hay. That would make a good surprise for the stable boy in the evening. Maybe he'd find it and sell it illegally and get something useful in return. It would do _him _far more good.

Sherlock looked dully at the state of his leggings.

Yes, they were filthy now, but Sherlock didn't care for his clothes anyway. They were far too ridiculous for a normal human being to wear. When he became king he was going to rule the kingdom in nothing but his night shirt. He snorted. He'd like to see what his father would make of _that. _The wood was dry and relatively clean so Sherlock got comfortable behind the hay and despaired some more. Sixteen summers he had been alive, and ten summers they'd tried to get him to stab and parry and undercut. He was good enough with a sword, in fact Sherlock was far better at sword play than most of the idiots he was forced to duel with, but he just didn't see the _point. _He would never need it anyway.

Sherlock was getting into a terrific mood thinking about how dull everyone was when he heard the door to the stable creak open and someone say, "Would he be here?" _Ser Kevyn._

"Search it, if you please. Maybe he took one of the horses."

Sherlock wanted to throw a stack of hay at him. Because that would draw too much attention to him, he crept backwards until he found the backdoor. The guard was coming closer, but he hadn't seen him yet. _Idiot, _Sherlock thought, and then threw open the door and sprinted away again.

This time he ran straight for the castle. This time he used the servant's entrance.

* * *

John was in a terrible mood.

The pumpkin tarts were refusing to bake, and he had poked at the coals at least a dozen times, and now they told him to leave them be, because Paula would take care of them. As if he could just leave them be. As if _Paula _would be any more successful than _he _had been. Then Ella dropped the dirty dishes into his arms and told him to wash them.

John scowled to himself but decided that there really was no use arguing that he was doing perfectly _fine _with the tarts, so he made his way towards the back door to get the dirty dishes outside to wash, when he felt someone knock into him, hard, and the dishes fell. They splintered on impact. John himself stumbled, and went down to his knees.

"You _idiot,_" he seethed, without looking up, picking up a broken shard of stone and examining it. Broken. Most of them. He was going to get _murdered._

"Do see where you're going, you great big—" and then when he looked up to tell this lout off, he was met with a startling pair of silver eyes and a very familiar, pale face. John blinked.

"Your Grace," he spluttered. "I—didn't—I apologise, your grace, I didn't—"

"Oh get up," the prince said, rolling his eyes, and held out a hand. John stared at the hand for a few seconds, long fingers stretched out for John to hold. He realised he was still on his knees, kneeling in front of the prince, almost, and he decided that he'd feel a bit more comfortable on his feet. So he took his hand—which was surprisingly warm, although John had no idea why he noticed that, and he shouldn't be noticing things like that—and the prince helped him up.

John looked sadly at the wreckage behind him. Luckily no one had heard the crash, because the kitchens were generally loud enough to mask anything—but they'd find out soon enough, and John didn't want to know what they'd do when they did.

The prince cleared his throat. "I—er—" John looked up at him, and he realised the prince was looking at the broken plates too—nervously? Embarrassed? _Well, damn right, he broke them, is he blind_? Then he licked his lips and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't, I was just trying to—"

Then John heard shouts from the open door, and the prince's eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, hell," he seethed, and turned around to peek behind the door. "They're here," he muttered, and then he looked at John. "Quick," he snapped. "Hide me."

"What?" John stared at him.

"_Hide me,_" Sherlock repeated impatiently, and John got the feeling that he would have used a few choice words to explain the urgency of the situation, but he was refraining from doing so. John looked at the open door, and at the empty rubbish crates next to them, and decided that this was a strange morning anyway, so what the hell? He took the prince's arm, and pushed him behind the crates.

"What—"

"There, just hide there, Your Grace, just crouch—"

"Oh. Delightful," he said approvingly, and disappeared behind the crates.

As soon as he was hidden from view, two guards were at the door, panting, spears glinting.

"You, boy," one of them snapped at John.

"Yes, ser," John said, too quickly, standing ramrod straight.

"Have you seen His Grace? The young prince?" he narrowed his eyes at John, and John wondered if he was going to use his spear as well.

"I—no—these plates are broken," he added a bit stupidly.

"He doesn't know anything," the other guard muttered. "Come, ser, he might have escaped from the other side," and then the two of them were gone.

John almost slumped with relief. And then he stepped on a plate and it splintered some more. The prince's head peeked out from the crate.

"This smells horrible," he informed him.

"My apologies, your grace," John said sarcastically. "I was under the impression you needed to hide." Then he realised how that sounded and blushed. "I mean—"

"Oh, don't worry about it," he waved him off dismissively, stepping out from behind the crates. "You don't even need to call me Your Grace, it's _ridiculous. _My name is Sherlock." Then he reached up a hand and ran his hands through the mop of dark curls on his head, as if he was trying to fix it. John wondered if he should tell him that it wasn't helping.

"I know," he said. "But I think I should call you...Your Grace..." John stopped talking when he realised that Sherlock had taken his wrist and had turned it, palm up. His touch made his skin tingle. He was a good six inches taller than him, and John had to look up to see his concerned gaze.

"You're bleeding," the prince said, and indeed, the palm of his hand had a cut across it, weeping blood.

"Oh," John said. "Oh, it's nothing, I'll just—"

"No, no," Sherlock shook his head, looking carefully at the broken skin. "This will infect, I can fix it." He dropped John's hand, and then he reached for his own tunic, and ripped a strip of it off.

"Your Grace—"

"Give me your hand, it'll stop the bleeding for now, and then I'll heal it when we're upstairs."

"Upstairs?" John repeated weakly, as Sherlock cradled his hand and wrapped the makeshift bandage around his palm. He did it surprisingly gently, and then looked at it for a few moments, checking for any more damage, before dropping it again. John realised he hadn't been breathing the whole time.

While John was trying to remember how to breathe, Sherlock had reached behind him to grab a broom that was propped up against the wall.

Then he started haphazardly sweeping the broken bits and pieces. He was creating a bit of a mess, to be honest.

"What are you doing?" John asked him, glad for the distraction.

Sherlock continued to sweep, and then he looked up at John and shot him an expression which clearly said _I pity your stupidity._

"I'm hiding the _plates,_" Sherlock told him, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

"No," John asserted. "You're not. My apologies, Your Grace, but, er—that's not exactly how you—" then he took the broom from Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock looked a bit offended at that, but he allowed John to brush the plates behind the crates. It made his hand hurt, and there was some blood smudged on the handle, so John had to use his apron to wipe it off.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, that was quicker," he admitted.

"I am going to get punished for this," John informed him, trying not to sound like he was blaming the prince, although it _had _been his fault.

"I'll—er—I'll speak to the—kitchen...people," Sherlock muttered. "You won't get in any trouble."

John raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, of course. Now come on, let me fix your hand."

"Where are we going?" John asked him, even as Sherlock took his wrist and led him outside.

"We're going inside the castle," Sherlock said, and winked at him. John felt his heart flutter a bit at that wink, although he had no idea why. This was a _very _strange morning.

Sherlock didn't let go of his wrist when they stole across the grounds and hid behind a tree for a few seconds until the guards had gone past. John didn't know what to make of it. The prince was clearly trying to steer him through properly, but surely this would be easier if they weren't holding hands? But John wasn't complaining. It was...pleasant.

"Can't you just—er—enter the castle...uh...normally?" John asked him, when they were creeping through the stone archway.

"No, the guards will find me and they'll make me practise _swordplay _again," Sherlock said contemptuously. "As if I need to learn _swordplay._"

They were inside now, somewhat, and Sherlock was leading him up a steep staircase which evidently lead to the library. He knew because the staff would come up here when the king wanted his supper delivered while he was studying. John had never been in the library himself, it was usually Ella's mother who took food to the king.

"But you're the prince," John said. "Shouldn't you—"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Just because I'm the prince doesn't mean I _need _to fight people. That's what started the riots in the first place. _Swords._"

"You sound like—"

"I sound like the rioters. How _awful _of me. But tell me, _you _don't know how to handle a sword, but does that make you any less of a man?" Sherlock had let go of his wrist and had taken out a dagger from his belt, and John was figuring out a way to answer his question when Sherlock sliced through the lock like it was better and kicked the door open. John had no idea what to say. He had never spoken to the prince before, and had been prepared for many things, but not _this._

Sherlock stepped inside, and John was still standing at the doorway, thinking again, how _ridiculous _all of this was. Then Sherlock called from inside, "Come in, there's no one here," so John stepped in. He took a moment to take it all in.

The library was just as he'd imagined it, with huge bookshelves that reached up to the dome shaped ceiling, crammed with volumes upon volumes; the floor was wooden and creaked when he moved, and there were a few desks wedged between the shelves almost as an afterthought, and the whole room smelled of parchment and quills and John _loved _it.

"You read," Sherlock's voice interrupted his drooling over the library.

John turned to him, blushing. It wasn't as if he wasn't _allowed _to read, but he was hardly as educated as Sherlock, and even though he was a bit more polite than the rest of his family, he was still a prince, and he might find it a bit insulting that a regular kitchen boy was pretending to _know _things.

But he didn't look like he disapproved of it. In fact, he looked...pleased.

"I—uh—yes, a little."

"You're _clever,_" Sherlock said, his lips twisting into a grin. "Delightful. I am going to give you books to read, and you will _love _them."

"You Grace, that really isn't—"

"My name is Sherlock," he said impatiently. "But come, I need to fix your hand, the books can wait."

"Are you sure no one will see us?" John asked him, nervously, as they walked through the vast library. John could have stayed here all day, amidst the books that seemed to whisper to him; who knew the kinds of things he could learn from here? He had heard that the King's archives were vast and never ending, that every day new books were shipped from the far corners of the world so that King could study them.

"I'll bring you here again," Sherlock promised him, as if he knew exactly what John was thinking of. John felt a warmth in his chest from his words, and he didn't understand; because he had heard that the prince was spoilt and rude and impolite but here he was actually being _nice. _

Then when they reached the grand, carved door that led into the castle, Sherlock turned to him and asked, "What is your name?"

"John, your gr—Sherlock."

"John," Sherlock repeated, as if he were considering the name, pushing the door open. "John," he said again, as if he approved of it. "Well thank the Lord I won't have to call you _kitchen boy_," he finally said, once they were out in the carpeted corridor.

John felt ridiculous. He had never been in this part of the castle before, and he couldn't help but notice how beautiful it was, the great stone walls and the torches burning bright, throwing shadows on the wall; he was admiring it when Sherlock took his hand again and said, "John, I will show you around the entire castle, I promise, but you really must let me take care of your hand."

"You-what?" John looked at him incredulously as they walked down the corridor, steps echoing dully. He was surprised that there were hardly any guards here, it was practically deserted.

"Well, you want to see the castle, don't you?" Sherlock asked, absent mindedly, as they turned a corner. "And you want to see the books. I could show you, if you'd like."

"I would—I would like that very much, of course, but, your father—"

"Oh who cares about my father," Sherlock said flippantly, and now they had reached a tall, engraved door, and this time John saw two guards on either side of it.

"Your Grace," they greeted Sherlock respectfully, but kept their spears locked over the door, glaring suspiciously at John.

"He's with me," Sherlock explained. "Now let us in."

"But your—"

"_Let us in,_" Sherlock repeated, and this time they were allowed to go in, although John got the feeling that the guards were none too happy about it. He didn't blame them. He was a _kitchen _boy, what on earth was he doing with the prince? At least they weren't holding hands anymore. That would have raised a few questions.

When the door was closed behind them, John looked around the prince's chamber and gaped. It was a big room, of course, but it was a _mess. _There were bookshelves pushed up against the walls, in fact there were books everywhere, on the floor, on the desk, under the window; scattered all over the unmade bed. The windows were shut and the curtains were drawn, which made the room stuffy; and John noticed that the prince's desk was covered in _plants. _This hadn't been what he had expected.

Sherlock had unsheathed his sword; a long, slender blade that seemed to suit him, and thrown it unceremoniously on top of his bed.

"Good riddance," he said under his breath, and then turned around to beckon John, who was still standing at the doorway, looking around the room.

"Don't stay there," he told him, "I think someone ought to open the windows. The _aremia nifellus_ is just blooming," the he disappeared behind another door.

"Aremia nifellus?" John echoed, following him. There was a narrow staircase beyond the wall, and Sherlock had already skipped down it, and even when John squinted he couldn't make out what lay at the bottom. "But that's poisonous. Widow's Kiss."

"I _know_," Sherlock responded gleefully from somewhere. John carefully stepped down the staircase, gripping the rails carefully, until his foot was on a flat surface. As soon as he did, soft yellow light filled the room, and when his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw...well, he wasn't sure what to make of it.

The walls and the floor were wood, and pinned on the walls were diagrams of...well, John had read enough anatomy to know that they weren't human diagrams. Some of them were plants, labelled meticulously by a neat hand, others were...creatures that John couldn't name. There was a sort of hammock swinging from one end of the small room to the other, and the rest of the room was taken by a huge desk, covered with notes and books and parchment, ink bottles, and next to it, on a shelf; well, John had to blink a few times before he realised they were more bottles, full of strange-coloured shimmery liquid, and pouches upon pouches of powder.

John felt a prickling at the back of his neck.

Suddenly Sherlock appeared at his side, holding a candlestick that was evidently the source of the light.

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice sounding surprisingly steady. He pointed at the shelf. "What are those?"

"You're clever, John, use your head."

John turned to him, eyes narrowing. "You're...you're a witch," he finished.

"I believe the term is _warlock,_" Sherlock corrected him. "But I don't think a name carries much value."

John should have been frightened. If he was a _normal _person, he should have screamed bloody murder and run out of there as fast as his legs could carry him. But something about Sherlock..well..John wasn't particularly brave, and Sherlock didn't _seem _dangerous, but...he stood there, looking at Sherlock, his dramatically high cheekbones, the wild tumble of curls that fell across his pale forehead, and silvery-blue eyes that almost burned with intelligence and curiosity.

"You know magic," John said, pointing at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "A little bit of this, and a little bit of that." He put the candlestick on an empty place on the desk and rummaged around in the adjacent shelf.

"But...magic is illegal," John said, wondering if he sounded silly.

"Yes," Sherlock responded absent mindedly, examining a bottle.

"Aren't you afraid I would tell someone?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, cocking his head. His lips curled up in a smirk. "Would you?" he challenged, sounding amused.

"No," John said immediately. Then, "How did you learn?"

"Oh," Sherlock shrugged, looking unconcerned. "You can learn anything if you have the right books and if you're as clever as I am."

"Modest, are you?" John said before he could stop himself, and then he flushed red with embarrassment. Sherlock laughed. It was a pretty laugh, John thought, there was no other way to describe it. He didn't think Sherlock usually laughed like that.

"Modesty wouldn't be one of my strong traits," he said. Then John saw him take another candle and he waved a hand over it, lighting it. John gasped.

"Did you—Lord have mercy...can you do that again?" John looked at Sherlock, who flashed him a small, shy smile.

"Yes," then he waved another hand over it, and the flame went out.

"That was brilliant," John whispered.

"I'm sure my father would have me burnt at the stake if he found out," Sherlock drawled, and took a bottle of liquid and uncorked it, warming it over the flame. John looked around some more as he watched him work, the pain in his hand forgotten. He noticed oddly shaped white things lined up on top of another cupboard. He squinted at them to discern their shape and then he gasped.

"Seven hells," he gasped. "Are those _skulls_?"

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, then strode over to John, taking his hand. "They're incredibly useful in summonings."

"Summonings," John echoed, as Sherlock gently took off the strip of cloth. It was red and inflamed now, but Sherlock didn't look worried. He held his hand lightly, and then took the bottle, and poising it over John's hand, said, "This will sting a little bit."

John nodded, and Sherlock poured some of the liquid on the wound. It stung, alright. It stung a great deal. John had to bite his lip to prevent himself from howling. Then Sherlock was done, and he put the bottle away, and blew on the wound, his cool breath washing over it. John swallowed, looking at his pale pink lips pucker and blow. He was staring at him for so long that he was startled when Sherlock finally said, "There, it's done." The he straightened up, and John looked down at his hand. The wound was gone.

"It's gone!" John exclaimed, turning his hand over. "Your Grace—Sherlock—you're brilliant!"

Sherlock huffed a shy laugh and said, "Well, it _was _my fault."

John looked up to smile at him, and almost stopped breathing when he saw Sherlock's face. His features were even more beautiful in the dim candlelight, casting shadows on his frame which nestled at the base of his throat and the hollows of his cheeks, and under his bright eyes. Sherlock gazed back at him, a shy smile frozen on his face, his cheeks slightly flushed by the barest touch of pink.

John hadn't been aware of how close they were standing, and now he was, he wanted to step back, but he couldn't, Sherlock's eyes were far too beautiful—

Suddenly there was a loud crash from behind him.

The spell broken, John stepped back. "What was that?" he asked.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and let out a frustrated breath. "Nothing," he mumbled. "Go back up."

There was another crash, and then he felt something scrabbling. He turned around, and there was only a wall behind him. "I can hear something," he muttered, ignoring Sherlock's command.

"Nope, you can't," Sherlock corrected him, and held his wrist, yanking him back. John fell against his chest, and it was almost too tempting to just melt against him, but he straightened himself, clearing his throat loudly and twisting out of Sherlock's gasp. There was another crash.

"_What _is that?" he asked again, and walked towards the wall.

"John—" Sherlock started. John stood in front of the wood, running his fingers down it, and suddenly there was a loud _thump. _John felt the wall vibrate.

"What is behind this wall?" John demanded.

There was another thump, and another bout of scrabbling. "A dog?" he asked. "Why are you keeping a dog down here?"

"It's not a dog," Sherlock said sullenly.

"Then what is it?"

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, and walked up to the wall, standing next to John. "I will show you. _But._" He turned to John, and poked a finger against his chest. "You will keep your lips sealed. Okay?"

"I—okay," John replied. "Of course."

"If you tell anyone, you'd get killed." Sherlock looked at him meaningfully.

John frowned. "What on earth are you keeping here?"

"You'll find out," Sherlock said ominously, and placed a palm on the wall. As John watched, the wall melted away, and he saw another part of the room that had been previously hidden.

John looked at the room. It was empty, covered with straw, and in the corner was a large trough of water and what looked like a pile of bones.

"What—"

Suddenly there was a low growl and something fell on the floor in front of him. It seemed to be around the size of a pup, a deep shade of crimson, scaly—at first John thought it was some sort of freakish snake. Then he realised what he was looking at, especially when it raised its head and looked at him with a pair of brilliantly green eyes. It flapped its scaly little wings a little and growled at John.

"That is a dragon," John stated, staring at it.

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"A dragon," John repeated, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Yes," Sherlock said again, patiently. The dragon flopped a bit to Sherlock's feet and nudged his legs. Sherlock bent down and petted its head.

"Sherlock," he said, evenly. "Why do you have a dragon?" _Don't scream. Don't run. Just act normal._

"I found her when she was a baby," he replied, then bent down again and took the dragon in his arms. She nestled cheerfully against his chest, gazing steadily at John, like she didn't know what to make of him. "She was hurt, and she couldn't fly, and—well, I couldn't just leave her there."

"But her mother—if her mother—" John spluttered.

"Her mother's dead," Sherlock said brusquely.

"But dragons live in the far north," John said, continuing to stare at her. She stared back.

"Well, I know it's a bit odd," Sherlock admitted, then stepped closer to John and stretched the cradle of his arms a little bit. "Go on, touch her. She won't bite. Hopefully."

That didn't sound very reassuring, but John held out a hand and gingerly patted her head. The dragon made a sort of purring noise, almost like a cat, and her eyes went half shut.

Sherlock laughed. "She likes you," he said. John smiled, and tickled her under her chin. She let out a puff of smoke from her nostrils happily.

"I don't understand," John murmured. "If your father knew you had a dragon, he'd keep her well, wouldn't he? I mean, a dragon, don't the kingdoms in the south use dragons for their armies?"

"Myth," Sherlock responded. "They used to. Years ago. But the dragons of the south are viscous, and they turn back on their masters more often than you would think. The ones in the north are wild and free, but gentler. I think she's from the North, but I can't be sure. And yes, you're right, my father would keep her well. Then she would grow and he'd train her and she'd become bloodthirsty and they would make her kill. I don't want that."

John looked up at Sherlock. "So you keep her here? What will you do when she grows up?"

"I don't know," Sherlock gently placed her on the floor, where she made that purring noise again and settled her wings around herself and fell asleep. "When she's old enough to take care of herself, I'll—" he shrugged again. "I let her out at night, on the North Tower. She flies a bit and she gets some fresh air."

"It's fine," John told him. "It's absolutely fine."

Sherlock bit his lip. "Well, now you know everything," and John looked up at him. Sherlock's eyes searched his face, their silvery sheen bright in the half-light. And John wondered again, how ridiculous all of this was. The prince was apparently a witch—warlock—and there was a dragon hidden in the bowels of the castle because Sherlock couldn't let her by herself in the wild. Of course he wasn't going to tell anyone. Of course.

"Your secret is safe with me," John assured him, smiling. "Secret_s."_

Sherlock smiled back. "Come on, I'll take you back upstairs. Redbeard will sleep for hours now," he stepped back, pulling John along with him, and waved his hand at the room so the wall appeared again.

"Redbeard?" John echoed. "Is that her name?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and blew the candle. The room was pitch dark again.

"Hey," John complained. "I can't see anything."

He waved his arms in front of him to find something to hold on to, and then he stepped forward and stumbled. Before he fell, he felt strong hands grip his biceps and a brush of warm breath over his face as Sherlock said, "Stay still, John, don't hurt yourself."

"You blew the candle out," John said defensively, trying to keep his voice even, as Sherlock straightened him and then clasped his wrist, pulling him forward through the darkness. His grip was warm and firm, John felt his long fingers against his skin, and wondered if Sherlock could feel the rapidity of his heartbeat under the thin skin of his wrist.

"Yes, because I had to," Sherlock said impatiently, and John felt a palm on the small of his back as Sherlock turned him around and pushed him forward gently. John felt the staircase against his toes.

"Go up," Sherlock said, and John felt his voice far too close to his ear to be decent, but of course it was all very decent, because Sherlock was just helping him up the stairs, how else was he going to make his way in this infernal darkness—John realised he hadn't been moving, and then he felt Sherlock's hands slip down his sides to rest lightly on his hips as he moved him forward a bit more firmly.

"John," he rumbled. "Go. Up."

"Yes," John said quickly, and then scrambled up the stairs, holding tightly to the rails. He felt Sherlock behind him, moving slowly so that John would have space, and when his fingers finally found the door, he was about to push it open when he turned around. Sherlock stopped, almost ramming into him. John could only barely make out the outline of his face; his eyes shone dimly in the darkness. Sherlock was very close to him, and John stood one step above him, so their heights were levelled out.

"John?" Sherlock asked quizzically.

"You didn't have to blow out the candle," John said slowly. "It wasn't really necessary."

"Oh?" Sherlock sounded amused. "I didn't?"

"No," John decided. "Why didn't you keep it lit while I went up? And then you could have come up after me and then blown it out. That seems easier. We wouldn't be groping around in this darkness then."

John couldn't see Sherlock, not properly- but he could almost _feel _the smirk on his face. Sherlock didn't say anything. John felt him move closer to him and for a wild moment John thought Sherlock was going to kiss him, and he went a little mad for a second, because he almost _wanted _Sherlock to kiss him, and he stopped breathing for that second, his back pressed against the door while Sherlock was in front of him, too _close,_ but instead Sherlock just leaned against John a little and reached for the door behind him, and said, "Let's get out of here, John," his deep voice raising goose bumps on his neck.

Then the door opened, and John stumbled again, losing the door behind his back, but Sherlock gripped his wrist again and chuckled. "Do you feel alright?" he asked, that smirk playing on the corner of his mouth. They were back in his room again, where there was light and fresh air and Sherlock wasn't standing so _close _anymore.

"Yes," John said quickly, stepping away. "I'm fine. I'm...fine."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and said, "Okay," sounding like he didn't quite believe John, and seven hells, John didn't believe himself either.

"I should get back to work," he told Sherlock, fiddling with his apron. "I've been gone for a long time, and they'll be looking for me and—"

"Yes," Sherlock said, and John noticed that his face fell a little, and he felt a little bad for that, because he didn't want to leave, not quite, but if he stayed any longer with Sherlock he had a feeling that he was going to do something inappropriate and end up getting beheaded. "I'll..escort you...back?" Sherlock fiddled with the collar of his doublet and looked at John nervously.

"If...if you want," John shrugged. Half of him wanted Sherlock to say yes, and half of him hoped that he would refuse. Although he wasn't quite sure of how to get back.

"Yes," Sherlock answered firmly. "I do."

* * *

They were in the stone courtyard when Sherlock told him, "Just straight from here, do you see the kitchens?" he had a hand on John's shoulder and was pointing towards the low stone building that housed the kitchens.

"Yes," John replied. "Yes, I can go from here."

"Okay," Sherlock nodded. "Just...straight."

John nodded. He was about to walk away when Sherlock called him back.

"John?"

John stopped immediately, turning around, hoping he didn't look too hopeful. Although he had no clue what he was looking so hopeful _for. _Sherlock was blushing. John blinked at him, and his own cheeks flooded with heat.

"Um," Sherlock said, and bit his lip.

John stared at him some more.

"I just wanted to...er..." Sherlock ran a frustrated hand through his curls. "Well..thank you."

John frowned at him. "Why are you thanking me?"

Sherlock shifted his weight. "For not telling anyone. Thank you." He looked at John, his silvery eyes sincere. "I've never showed anyone...well, anything. None of that. You're the first person."

John felt a warmth spread to his chest and he grinned at Sherlock. "To be honest, Your Grace, you're the first person who's shown me any of that."

"Sherlock," he corrected. "My name is Sherlock. Not Your Grace."

"Oh, yes," John laughed. "I'm sorry. Sherlock."

"Well, then." Sherlock looked down at his feet. "You should go. Before someone sees you."

"Yes," John answered, and began moving towards the kitchens again when Sherlock interrupted him and said, "Do you still want to see the library?"

John turned around at him, eyes wide. "Yes," he answered honestly. "But I don't want to be any trouble, I mean..."

"You won't be any trouble," Sherlock scoffed. "You're the most tolerable person I've met in this kingdom. And you're moderately clever, so it makes a refreshing change from the idiots I'm forced to interact with."

John wondered if that was an insult or a compliment. He decided he didn't want to know. "That would be fantastic, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "I'll see you later, then, John."

"Yes you will," John replied, grinning, and finally went back to the kitchens, a ridiculous smile still on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**You know what's better than sword puns? REVIEWS. :D**

**Sorry for any typos you may see. **

* * *

:2:

Sherlock was aware he was being an idiot. What else could explain him spilling his most closely guarded secret to a common kitchen boy who he just met the same day? It was ridiculous. If he told anyone, he would be killed, and Sherlock...Sherlock didn't know what his father would do with him. Mycroft would probably prevent him from doing something drastic, but his father was still a king and Sherlock was old enough to know that kings, in general, did whatever pleased them.

Of course, that didn't stop him from wanting to meet John again, of course. That was him being idiotic again. Sherlock hated people. But John, John was...different. There was no other word for it. John looked at him like he wasn't an oddity. John looked at Sherlock with a gaze that wasn't the same as others and that made Sherlock cock his head and look at him a bit more closely because this John boy simply did not make sense.

The library was an excuse, albeit a poorly constructed one, but he doubted John would notice. A potential healer, Sherlock knew with barely a glance. Sherlock doubted he would be able to become a healer if he stayed here, scrubbing pots and pans all day, and he was under no illusion that John would not be able to become one if he set his mind to it. Sherlock thought that John was clever, and Sherlock was very rarely wrong about these things. Sherlock was very rarely wrong in general.

Sherlock strode across the library to the padlocked door at the back which had probably been closed once more. How dull. It was a simple matter of twisting his knife in just the right way and the door clicked open.

John was leaning against the wall, stifling a yawn when he saw the door swing open. Sherlock poked his head between the gap and grinned at him. John's golden hair was ruffled from sleep and he was dressed in a shirt and loose cotton trousers; just as Sherlock had rather hoped. The shirt was transparent enough, and well...that could have been _partly _the reason Sherlock had told him to come at midnight. Or it could have been a happy coincidence.

"Good evening Your Grace," he said happily, entering the room. "Your guards didn't bother me." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's Sherlock, and technically it's already morning," he reminded him, choosing not to say anything about the guards. The truth was they were asleep and Sherlock had cast the spell, but John didn't need to know that.

John, however, was not listening to him. Instead he was looking at the library with the same enthralled expression he had worn two days ago. "It's brilliant," he breathed, and Sherlock felt the familiar warmth in his chest knowing that _he _had brought John here, that _he _was part of the reason John was smiling.

_What was wrong with him_? Sherlock chastised himself. How _sentimental_, he thought acidly. This was just a distraction. A few moments of meaningless drivel to drive away the boredom ripping his mind to shreds. John was merely a means to an end, and if Sherlock wanted to keep his dignity intact, he would need to _keep it that way._

He cleared his throat, "Yes, quite," he said, standing besides John. The library was dimly lit with a few candles, throwing certain corners of it into shadow, bright gold darkening into ochre and black along the walls and floor.

"Your father isn't here," John told him. "He usually is." He moved towards the closest book shelf, running a hand down the spine of a green-backed volume.

"His Royal Highness is in the South," Sherlock explained with an edge of tiredness to his voice. Because they certainly weren't going to discuss his _father, _Gods, no. "the Southern Isles are having problems with a _giant_," Sherlock sunk down into an armchair nestled between a corner created by two shelves, stretching his legs out on the table, leaning his head back.

"Are there books on magic in this library?" John asked, a trace of hopefulness in his voice. Sherlock smiled wickedly.

"If you know where to _look,_" he drawled, stretching an arm behind him and taking out a book and tossing it to John. John caught in his hand, turning over the cover. "_Poisons and their Antidotes ," _he read. "This is about magic?"

Sherlock leaned forward and took John's wrist, pulling him down and forcing him to sit down in the opposite chair. This he needed to stop doing as well. This ceasless _touching. _John was going to think he was a degenerate and run away from him. He needed to prevent that from happening. Under no circumstances must John be frightened away.

"I doubt my father has ever opened this book," Sherlock muttered, taking it from him. He hooked his fingers under the wood of the chair and pulled him closer. Too close, in fact, their knees brushed each other and it was _ridiculous, _because there was plenty of space but Sherlock didn't feel like pushing him away again. John looked a bit alarmed at the sudden manhandling but he didn't say anything, choosing to stoically stare at the book.

"What do you mean?" John asked, opening the book, delicately, with a sense of awe in his movements. His face fell, however, when he saw the first few pages. "It's not in the Common Tongue," he said sadly.

"Don't worry," Sherlock reassured him, hating the upset look on his face. John shouldn't be upset, not while Sherlock was here. He gently prised the book from John's fingers, opening to a page in the middle of the book. "It's in Elven," he said, eyes skimming over familiar characters, curly letters against the faded yellow of the pages.

John gasped. "Your father can read Elven?"

Sherlock smirked. "No," he said. "But I can. Hence why father doesn't know what this book actually contains."

"But if he finds out..." John muttered, sentence trailing off. His fingers moved to the laces in his shirt, nervously fiddling with them. Sherlock found his gaze travelling to the deep vee of the garment, the sharply defined sternum and the suggestion of golden hair further down below but he tore his gaze away when John's eyes met his for a second.

"He won't," he said quickly, trying to control the heat rushing to his face. He hoped John hadn't noticed. He hoped he blamed it on the dim light. "Father won't look at it if the cover is in English," he explained. "Look at this," he pointed to a word at the top, John following the path of his finger with his gaze. "A growing spell," he murmured. "Usually used with plants, fairly easy. Helps if you have an affinity for them, you know, gardener, healer..." his voice trailed off and he cleared his throat meaningfully.

John huffed a laugh under his breath, playfully knocking his knee against Sherlock's. "I'm neither a gardener _nor _a healer, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock looked up at him, quirking an eyebrow. John looked back at him, smiling ruefully, his eyes bright in the flickering candlelight. "What?" he asked.

"You want to be a healer," Sherlock ventured, searching his face for a reaction. John's cheeks coloured slightly, and he pinned his bottom lip with his teeth. Sherlock's gaze flicked down to his mouth for a second before he hastily returned his gaze to John's eyes instead. Thankfully, John hadn't noticed. He was looking uncertainly at the book.

"I...yes, maybe. How did you know?" he looked at Sherlock then, cocking his head to one side in question.

"You knew that the _Aremia Niffelus _was poisonous, which revealed your interests more than anything else would- it's a rare plant, and the only way you could have found out what it was, would be through study—you taught yourself that. Why teach yourself about poisonous plants? Do you want to study botany? Unlikely, because you didn't show any interest in the normal blooms in my room—but you did seem to recognize the diagrams on my wall downstairs—those were medicinal plants. Very easy, John, if only you would observe," Sherlock smirked. John's blonde eyebrows rose so high they almost disappeared under his floppy golden hair.

"I heard you were clever, but I didn't know you were _that _clever," John said, grinning. Sherlock felt an odd jolt in his stomach- as if it had flipped over, but he knew that was impossible, so he couldn't really explain how it felt. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant feeling. In fact, John's comment made him feel close to _euphoric._

"You're the first person to say that and actually _mean _it," Sherlock told him. John looked confused. "Of course, when I say clever things like that people _have _to compliment me," Sherlock explained. "I'm the prince and all that. If they told me how they _really _felt, my brother would have their heads cut off," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As if I _care _what they think. Of course it's clever. I don't need someone to _tell _me."

"But you'd like it," John said teasingly, eyes sparkling with amusement. They really _did _sparkle, Sherlock thought. He found himself grinning back at John.

"Well, now and again it wouldn't hurt," Sherlock admitted flippantly. John laughed again. "But I suppose I'd only care about _your _opinion," he blurted out. Oh god. Stupid. Stupid. That was a bit much, wasn't it? Sherlock felt his cheeks heat up. "I mean—" he tried to rectify that. "Well, I mean—"

"Are you going to tell me my opinion _doesn't _matter, after all?" John asked, his tone utterly serious, but a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was _teasing. _Again. Sherlock shot him a withering look and John burst into a fit of giggles. It was possibly the most attractive thing that Sherlock had ever seen, but he wasn't going to say that, to _anyone. _Maybe he'd just lock the image up in his Mind Palace and look at it again later. Properly.

"So tell me," John said, after the giggles had passed. "Would I be able to grow a plant using this spell?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Practise makes perfect," he said pragmatically, and then cursed himself for it. Ugh. He sounded like his tutor. How was he going to impress John if he sounded like his _tutor_?

John evidently thought the same thing. He raised his eyebrows again. "I'd practise," he promised, that teasing tone still in his voice.

Sherlock could feel himself blush again. Then an idea struck him. "I'll show you," he said. "Come with me." He got up, straightening his tunic and shoving the book back in his place. He knew the spell by heart, he wouldn't need it. And for what he had in mind the book would just make things more cumbersome.

John stood up, frowning. "Where are we going? It's past midnight."

Sherlock leaned forward and said in his ear, "It's a surprise." John's slight intake of breath at the proximity was satisfying, but Sherlock regretted it an instant later. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was he _doing?_

He swept away from him then, making his way towards the door. John followed him a second later, clearing his throat. Sherlock ignored that and instead concentrated his energies on pushing the huge, heavy door open. He heard John make an annoyed sound and then he leaned his weight against it and swung the door open easily. Sherlock blinked at him, his tongue making an involuntary appearance to wet his lips.

"It was quicker," John explained sheepishly, stepping out into the carpeted corridor.

"Oh, of course," Sherlock agreed, closing the door behind him. Then he pulled himself together and told John, "Follow me."

* * *

The moon was a pale crescent against the sky; in this part of the castle it looked bigger, more ethereal. The garden was silent and still; the only sound the slight ruffle of leaves from the occasional breath of wind. Sherlock locked the gate behind him after John was in and pocketed the key. He could make out his outline from the barest silver light from the moon; the same light everything else was bathed in. It threw parts of his face into shadow, making the blue of his eyes deeper, bluer.

"Wow," he whispered. "This place is beautiful."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Come here," then he took John's wrist, because he couldn't help himself, and besides, the garden was dark and he didn't want John to trip over a root and injure himself. Besides, John didn't seem to mind. His fingers brushed Sherlock's palm as he lead him down the path of gravel, and Sherlock held up the hanging ivy for John to pass through. He was being _polite. _That was all.

When they came to the pond, Sherlock let go of his hand and sat down on the grass. This was his favourite part of the garden; the pond with its water lilies, and the purple flowers blooming around them. John sat down uncertainly next to him. He looked at the sky. Sherlock turned to him, and took a moment to really _look_; John's golden head stretched back, his lips slightly parted and his tan throat revealed as he gazed upwards. _He looks perfect_, he thought, and the very next moment, _Stop thinking like that, you barely know him._

"So," John said softly, turning back to him. "It's all very pretty. But why am I here?"

"We're going to grow a flower," Sherlock said, and gestured to the tiny purple flowers dotting the grass. "They're still young, still growing, but I can grow them faster."

"You really mean I can do that?" John asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

"Yes," Sherlock promised, because he doubted other people would be able to accomplish such a feat, but he had no doubts as far as _John's _skills were concerned. "Watch."

He cupped a hand over one of the flowers; feeling the familiar tingle in his fingertips. His skin brushed the soft petals, and he could feel its life force under his palm; like a sort of golden warmth flowing in his blood. It was all a matter of manipulating the energy; Sherlock said the spell under his breath, and the flower grew; the petals twisting and elongating, the stem stretching. John exhaled sharply.

"That's brilliant," he said, and reached out to touch the flower. For a second Sherlock felt his fingertips burn, as if the low warmth he had felt had suddenly burst into flame; he wasn't quite finished, his own energy still connected to the flowers, and when John touched it, it was unlike what he had ever felt before. He was unsure what to feel about it.

"How do I do it?" John asked.

"I'll—I'll show you," Sherlock said, and then shifted, so he was behind John, kneeling, his chin a few inches above John's head, close, but not too close, not close enough. But this was good. Decent. "Choose a flower," Sherlock told him, his voice coming out too husky.

"I—okay," John said uncertainly, and after a second, pointed to particularly small one, right in front of him. "This one."

"Interesting," Sherlock whispered, shuffling closer until his mouth was level with John's ear. "Clear your head. Is your head clear?"

"Yes," John said, his voice faltering a bit.

"Clear it, John," Sherlock repeated. "Take a deep breath," Sherlock was so close he could feel John breathing against him, the gentle, but slightly strained rise and fall of his chest. John took a deep shuddering breath.

"Clear, I think," John told him.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, and then, took John's hand, cupping his own over it, interlacing their fingers slightly and then lifting it off the grass. His skin was cool against his own. Sherlock moved it slowly over the flower in question.

"This would take practise," he said. "But I know you can do it. Think of the flower, John, think of it growing; every day, every second, taller, stronger, more beautiful; close your eyes and think of it."

Sherlock's lips were almost brushing the shell of his ear now, his chest pressed against John's back. John said nothing, his breath a litter quicker than usual, but he nodded.

"The flower is just energy, John; the energy makes it grow, makes it flourish; if you feel it, you can control it, manipulate it, dominate it. You can do that; just imagine it inside this little flower, swirling, flowing, pulsing; pure, unadulterated energy." He let out slow, shuddering breath; he was too close to him, far too close, pressed against him, almost, he could feel every tremor of his skin, and the heat radiating from under that ridiculously transparent shirt; suddenly John's hand gave a twitch.

"I—I felt something!" he said.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, a flare of pride in his chest at John's accomplishment. "That's the energy. How does it feel? Warm?"

"Y-yes," John agreed, and Sherlock tightened his fingers around John's, feeling the warmth flow into his own skin as well.

"That's the energy you're feeling. Keep it. Don't let go of it. This is fantastic John, you're doing so well—now, listen to me, you need to repeat what I say, word for word, exactly as I say it." John sighed a little, leaning against him, the warmth of his body soft against Sherlock's.

"Tell me," John said.

Sherlock whispered the foreign words into his ear, his voice dropping in spite of himself John shuddering faintly against him. Just a spell, he told himself, _it's just a spell._

John repeated his words, slowly, carefully; but perfectly. The pronunciation was terrible, of course, it was probably the first time he was speaking Elven, let alone hearing it.

Sherlock continued, and John said the words back once more.

He felt John's skin grow hotter under his; the spell had probably worked. For a few seconds, Sherlock kept his grip on John's hand, breathing against his temple. John was still; except for his slightly accelerated breathing.

"I think—I think I felt—" he stammered.

Sherlock pulled their interlaced hands away and looked down at the floor, and smiled.

"It's grown," he said approvingly. It was still young, still small; but the difference was obvious, at least to him it was. And even that was an accomplishment.

"It looks the same," John said dubiously. Sherlock huffed a laugh, and then shifted a bit so he wasn't quite so close to John anymore, and gently eased his fingers away.

"It grew," Sherlock promised him, his voice hitching a bit because of the sudden desire to press his lips against the skin under John's ear, he was close enough, if he just leaned forward a bit, he would be able to; skin against skin, breathing him in; what did he smell like, he wondered, what would he taste like if he flicked his tongue over the spot?

"Well," John interjected, interrupting his inappropriate thoughts. "If you say so." He turned around to look at Sherlock, a faint smile playing on his mouth while his eyes did that odd sparkly/shining thing under the faint light of the moon. And Sherlock wondered again how John would taste like if he just leaned forward and kissed him, now; against his slightly parted lips, would John kiss him back? Or would he simply push him away and run? Probably the latter.

"It's late," he said, looking away from him so he could concentrate on something that didn't cause stirrings of any sort in his trousers. "You should go back."

"I—yes, yes I should," John replied quietly, his tone sounding slightly disappointed. Sherlock hated it, but it couldn't be helped, his self control was crumbling in any case, and they were just _so close_, and it was all so _wrong. _

"I'll take you back," Sherlock offered, standing up and brushing grass off himself. Curiosity, he thought. It's just curiosity. Nothing different. Because Sherlock didn't do anything of the sort. Sherlock never thought things like that about anyone, so why John?

"I can go myself," John replied uncertainly, looking up at him from under sandy eyelashes. It was too dark to see his expression properly, but Sherlock was sure he blushed.

"No, you can't, someone might see you," it came out sounding rather harsher than he would have liked, and Sherlock felt guilty, but again, it _didn't matter _because he didn't think of John in _that way, _Gods, no.

"Okay," John acquiescenced, standing up. "Off we go, then, Your Grace." His tone sounded odd, and Sherlock couldn't exactly deduce what it meant. He must have been staring at John again, because he cleared his throat awkwardly and Sherlock suddenly remembered that he had just promised John to take him home.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and lead him out of the garden, not daring to hold his hand again. It hadn't really occurred to him that John might feel uncomfortable when he did it before, he just, he just_ wanted _to, and he hadn't thought it would _mean _anything. Not that it did. Obviously not. It didn't mean _anything._

* * *

Sherlock took him down to the staff quarters near the kitchens, the both of them not having said anything for the whole time. "Here," he finally said, waving at the door. "Off you go."

John nodded and put his hand on the handle to open it and go inside, when he stopped and looked back at Sherlock. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. John's eyes were wide, uncertainty etched on his face, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite get the words out.

"John?" Sherlock prompted.

"I, uh—" John ran a hand through his hair. "Thank you."

Sherlock frowned. "For what?"

"For today," John clarified, "The library, the garden, all of it. Thank you."

Sherlock couldn't help smiling. "Please," he said flippantly. "I should be thanking you, I've never been so not-bored for such a long time."

John laughed softly, his gaze dropping to his feet. Sherlock giggled back at him, unable to help himself. When John looked up at him, the ghost of his laughter still in the lines of his mouth, Sherlock could imagine leaning forward, curling a hand around his nape and pulling him closer, tasting that laughter—he wondered who else had been able to do that, because they must have been so _lucky_...

It seemed as though John had inched closer, because his lips were not so far away anymore, and Sherlock felt himself leaning forward, his gaze dropping to John's mouth, and if he just shifted his face they'd kiss, he could do it now, after all, what did he have to lose—

Suddenly, the door clicked open John sprung away from him, Sherlock barely registering the absence of warmth until he almost stumbled.

"John, is that you?" the voice asked. Female voice, probably one of the kitchen maids, Sherlock turned around, trying to ignore the uncomfortable heat on his cheeks and around his neck, and maybe the slight tightness around his groin. He could barely see John in the half light, but he doubted John felt the same.

"I-uh, hello, Ella," John sputtered.

"What are you doing out so late? I heard voices and I—who's this? Who are you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and suddenly her eyes widened. "You _Grace!_ I-uh—my apologies, Your Grace, my apologies," she curtsied in front of him, gripping the shawl around her shoulders as if she were afraid it would fall off. _Idiot, _he thought. _You obviously want it to, you would have, if I wasn't here, you like him, don't you, you like John..._

He waved her off dismissively, and turned back to John, who looked vastly uncomfortable. "I'll just go," he muttered tiredly. "Good night, John."

"Good _morning_," John corrected him with a slight smirk, and Sherlock grinned back.

* * *

John was stretched over him, a strong, sinewy line of lightly defined muscle and a dusting of golden hair, his lips at the skin under Sherlock's ear, moving down to his neck, teeth and tongue making a slow assault on the sensitive skin. Sherlock's arm was pinned down on either side of his head while John dragged his teeth down his throat and licked a wet line across his collarbone.

"Sherlock," he said in a languid drawl, hips grinding against him, Sherlock's cock pressed against his thigh in maddening friction, while John's unclasped Sherlock's wrists and slid his hands down his side to grip the hollow of his waist, rubbing slow circles against his hip bone. Sherlock groaned, writhing underneath him, his cock still trapped almost painfully against John's thigh, the frenzied rutting doing nothing to relieve him.

"_John_," he panted, fingers entangling in floppy golden hair; it felt just like he had imagined it; soft but coarse, thick enough for him to grip on to while he gritted his teeth and wrapped one leg around John's hip, pinning him against him.

"Tell me you want me," John whispered in his ear to which Sherlock replied in a series of fervent 'yes's'", rubbing his groin against him meaningfully. This time John laughed, nipping his ear playfully, making Sherlock moan pathetically and grip his hair tighter.

"_Please,_" he begged, and John moved his hips in a slow, simmering circle against his crotch, not enough, not enough.

"Please what?" John asked, grabbing the leg around his waist and hitching it higher against his ribs. Sherlock whimpered.

"Please," he repeated. "Anything, anything—just—" another groan as John moved in another languorous circular motion, teasing and taking and not giving anything back just yet.

"Go on," he encouraged him, sucking his pulse. "Say it."

"Fuck me," Sherlock finally breathed, desperately canting his hips against John's groan. "Please, just, oh god _John,_" he rasped, wrapping both legs around John's ribs, so that he could feel John brush against his entrance. "Oh _Lords,_" he said, and John gave another particularly torturous roll of his hips, and Sherlock keened with barely contained arousal.

"Yes," John agreed, "Yes, oh _yes,_" and John sank into him, wrenching a wet gasp from Sherlock's lips, his entire body jolting underneath him, and John moved, slow, slow, _slow, _barely doing anything at all, just gently rocking against him while Sherlock ran his fingernails down his back hard enough to leave marks, shifting so that he could take John in deeper, oh _yes..._and John did, John fucked him slow and lazy, and it was so _good, _Gods yes, Sherlock moaned and said things that he couldn't remember, but definitely something absolutely filthy; oblivious to everything except John inside him—

Sherlock awoke with a start.

Panting, the dampness on his forehead and temples indicative of cold sweat.

_Dream._

_Not real._

_Not real._

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his heart thudding against his ribcage, trying to control his breathing and make sense of what he had just dreamt up. This wasn't possible. He wasn't supposed to feel like this, he had his body under control, but in the dream, oh in that dream he was a needy, incoherent mess begging for John's cock, _surely _this didn't mean anything. Sherlock became aware of the painful hardness between his legs, evidence of his dream clear in the arousal insistently tenting against the front of his trousers and the gooey mess down there. Sherlock let out a slow, shaky breath, heat in his cheeks and his neck, and right down there at his crotch. He could ignore it, couldn't, he, it would just go away, certainly...except right now he couldn't imagine closing his eyes and going back to sleep. He'd need to get of soiled night clothes, but first—first, _oh god, _Sherlock reached down below, the barest brush of his own fingers against his own skin making his entire body jolt. Slipping his hands underneath he gripped himself, unable to prevent the groan from escaping his own lips at the first touch.

His cock was already slick with his own seed from that ridiculous dream, and Sherlock stroked himself rapidly, biting his lips in a futile attempt to keep quiet. Just _get it over with_, he thought, pleasuring himself without finesse or technique, the only objective being to come, fast, _now, _the remnants of the dream still torturing him when he closed his eyes. It didn't take long, he climaxed as soon as he thought of the dream again, of John's fingers around him, just like this, whispering something filthy into his ear while he made Sherlock beg.

He forearm fell against his forehead when he was done, his bare chest rising and falling rapidly and his cock finally satiated for now. He kicked his trousers off, and tried to get back to sleep, but he couldn't, half afraid he'd be assaulted by another dream of the sort.

Instead he got off the bed and picked up another pair of pants from his wardrobe, dragging them up his legs and tying the strings.

Once he was dressed, he opened the door that led down into his study, the stairs familiar despite the darkness. Sherlock muttered a spell under his breath so that the lone lamp hanging from the top blazed with flickering light.

He sighed, and decided he might as well check on Redbeard; but when he went inside, she was asleep, light puffs of smoke rising from her nostrils while she snored, her scaly tail twisted around her body. Not wanting to wake her, Sherlock went back to his study. The light was dim and Sherlock felt his eyelids growing heavier; he didn't sleep much, he never felt the need for it, and now when he finally _did _feel like it, he was too scared.

Sherlock tumbled into the hammock in the corner of the room, and it swung under his weight as he settled himself into it. He would have blown the light out but then room would be pitch dark and he might fall asleep again, so instead he stared at the ceiling and tried to think of anything else but the feverish heat of his dream and the phantom feeling of John's mouth ghosting down his neck. He had never felt like this about anyone, boy or girl. He didn't care that John was a boy, he had stopped caring about things like that a long time ago. It wasn't as if he had never _done _it before- but it had always been about satisfying his curiosity, nothing else.

Leonard had been the first, Sherlock could barely remember his face, just the briefest, fleeting image of long golden curls and a sly smile. Leonard had been clever and a good rider, the horses liked him, he would whisper in their ears and they would calm down. Sherlock was scarcely fifteen, his sword still felt heavy in his hand and his limbs always felt too long in his body. But Prince Leonard had intrigued him, the strange prince from the South who always laughed.

"In the South we bed boys as well as girls," Leonard would tell him, smirking. "Have you ever sucked a boy's cock before, my prince? I could show you. I could show you how it feels." Leonard was clever, he was; he knew how to make Sherlock say, "Yes. Yes, what does it feel like? Show me."

The curiosity ended up with his cock in Leonard's mouth, his own fingers covering his lips so no one could hear him groaning behind the stables.

Then there was Victor and after that Eryk, but Sherlock got bored. He concentrated on magic instead, trying to drive away the boredom with the lost art and forbidden spells. It helped, at least it did until now—because Sherlock was clever, and he knew that John was going to be dangerous. And what scared him the most was that the only thing he wanted _wasn't _John's mouth, or his cock, or his body—although he desired him, that was clear enough—but Sherlock...he wanted John in other ways. He wanted John to smile at him and he wanted to make him laugh. It was odd. Because he had never felt the urge before. And how long had he known John? Scarcely a week.

And besides—John wasn't a prince, he wasn't a Lord's son, he was a common kitchen boy and if Mycroft found out, if his _father _found out—they'd kill him, for sure. The thought made his fingers shake and his entire body freeze and Sherlock had to sit up and control his sudden frenzied breathing until his breath came easily once more.

He fell back then, sighing. He didn't give a damn either way, John could have worked in the stables or been a squire or anything at all and Sherlock would have still wanted him. John was clever and good and kind and he didn't look at him strangely and that's all Sherlock had ever wanted from anyone, really.

He rubbed the growing tiredness from his eyes, yawning.

Sherlock flicked his fingers and another candle on the desk burst into flame. He reached to his right to drag a book from the shelf and opened it, resigned. He'd read until he fell asleep, he thought, and hopefully John wouldn't appear in his dreams again, tempting him and tormenting him.

Another sleepless night, he thought.


End file.
